


date ideas

by lateralus112358



Series: Juvenile Delinquents [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9247463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralus112358/pseuds/lateralus112358
Summary: Root tries to take Shaw out on dates, with varying levels of success.





	1. Chapter 1

Fact #1: Your name is Root.  
Fact #2: You have a friend named Sameen Shaw.  
Fact #3: Your friend (see Fact #2) is also your only friend, and also your girlfriend.  
Facts #4-∞: Your girlfriend (see Fact #3) is beautiful and perfect.

Sure, she never uses the word ‘girlfriend’ herself, and maybe she glares at you any time you use it. But she also kissed you, which you think is fairly conclusive proof that she is your girlfriend. 

But anyway, Shaw (who is definitely your girlfriend) is sitting beside you on her bed reading a book in some language you don’t recognize (Persian? Wait, is Persian actually a language? Or is it Farsi? Arabic? You better look it up sometime when she’s not paying attention so you can impress her), while you peruse items 1-20 of your ‘date ideas’ file on your laptop, looking for something suitable. Today is Saturday, and Saturday is Date Night. Even though Date Night is really more like Date Day, since you can’t go out at night, per Shaw Family Rules. Unless you sneak out. That’s Date Idea #31, FYI. But you’re saving that one for later. 

“What do you want to do?” You ask, turning to Shaw.

“Read this book.” She doesn’t look up. You roll your eyes, and lay your head on her shoulder.

“For our _date_ , Sameen.”

She still doesn’t look up from her book. “I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

You slip your arm behind her head and around her shoulders, because she can’t move it away and keep hold of her book at the same time. She opts to continue holding the book. “I want to do whatever you want to do,” You say, not without a bit of playful mockery. You also notice that she didn’t deny that you’ve been going on dates (thus she didn’t deny that she’s your girlfriend (thus she is your girlfriend (not that you needed more proof, but it’s nice anyway))).

She huffs, and lays the book down on her knees. She still doesn’t move your arm away. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Root?”

She always calls you Root. Never Samantha. Never even asked why you wanted to be called Root, why you don’t want the other name. Root is who you are, so that’s what she calls you. “I just want to make you happy,” You say, tilting your head to look up at her, and punctuating the statement with a wide-eyed poutysadface. Shaw always says “That stupid pouty face doesn’t work on me, Root,” but then she always does whatever you want, so you think it probably does work, and she just doesn’t want you to know.

Shaw scoots sideways, away from you, and your head slips off her shoulder and you tip over, your head landing on the mattress, laptop sliding off your lap and onto the bed. You stretch your arms out towards Shaw and look at her plaintively. “Help me.”

“No.”

You let your arms flop down onto the bed, and roll your eyes so only the whites show. “You killed me, Shaw.”

“Good.”

“I’m dead forever.”

“Good.”

“But you can bring me back.”

“Not very ‘forever,’ then, is it?”

You ignore this. “A kiss will bring me back.”

Shaw sighs. “If I kiss you, will you stop annoying me?”

You grin. “No.”

She leans over and gives you a quick kiss anyway, so you sit back up. Shaw gestures at your laptop, still lopsided and laying somewhat forlornly on the bed. “Why are you even asking me what I want to do? Aren’t you just going to use your date ouija board over there?”

“Maybe.” You pick the laptop up again. “But it’s more fun this way.”

“Just give that to me.” Shaw groans, and grabs your laptop. You lay your head on her shoulder again and watch her scroll through the list of potential dates. “‘Break into house,’ ‘break into school.’” She reads aloud. She starts to turn to you, forgetting how close your head is, and hits you in the eye with her chin. “Sorry,” She mutters, with an apologetic grimace.

“It’s OK.” You say, straightening up and rubbing your eye. Shaw moves your hand away with her own so she can make sure she didn’t do any lasting damage to your face. You’re OK with this, because you like it when she gets all doctor-y, and also because it brings her face very close to yours. Suddenly you’re thinking about how pretty her eyes are. She has very nice eyes. And also lips. Which you’re definitely staring at. Which you should definitely stop staring at. But instead of stopping, you don’t. Shaw pulls her hand back, evidently satisfied that your face remains unmarred, and (tragically) turns away, back your laptop. “How many of these involve breaking into things?” 

“Eight.”

“OK, let’s do one of those.”

“We can’t do those.” You say, exasperatedly.

“Why not?”

“Numbers twenty-one and up have special requirements. See?” Obviously. You point out your very clear system of symbols that decorate all the prompts numbered higher than twenty. 

Shaw looks at you incredulously, and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. Let’s just do this one.” 

She points to a line that reads simply: ‘food’

***

You and Shaw walk to a place a little way down the street that serves a Philly cheesesteak sandwich that Shaw seemed very interested in. You could have asked Shadi to drive you, but it doesn’t seem very romantic to have your girlfriend’s mom ferry you to your date. What’s also not very romantic is taking a girl out to lunch but not being able to pay for it. You guess you’re not a very good girlfriend, because that’s exactly what you do. While you’re standing there awkwardly, realizing you are completely penniless and wondering whether you should just run out of the restaurant, Shaw steps around you, pulls some money from her pocket, and pays for your meals. 

Things get even worse when your food arrives. To your dismay, you find that the salad you ordered is riddled with cucumbers, which you don’t like. You try to push them all to the side of the container, but the rest of the salad still tastes like cucumbers. You keep eating it anyway to stop this date from being any more of disaster, and hope Shaw doesn’t notice. 

Shaw notices.

“Stop.”

“What?”

“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.”

“It’s fine.”

“Obviously it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“You are so frustrating.” Shaw grabs the container of salad and pulls it over to her side of the table, then sits it on the chair beside her, out of your reach. She then takes a napkin, lays it in front of you, and plops down half of her sandwich. “You might as well eat some real food anyway.” She mutters.

***

Fact #∞+1: Your girlfriend loves you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The astute reader may observe what at first glance appears to be a continuity error between this work and the preceding one, Some Approximation of Friendship, where, in the latter, Root claims not to eat meat, and, in the former, she seems to do exactly that. Far be it from this author to neglect even the minutest detail, and to that end, the following suggestions are offered for the reader’s consideration.
> 
> 1\. It is possible that Root does not eat the sandwich.  
> 2\. Root may have eaten it simply to avoid more trouble, as she (attempted) to do with the salad.  
> 3\. Root’s initial claim may have been a lie to make her offer of a burger more plausible.
> 
> The reader is encouraged to come to their own conclusions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still a few days before Valentine's, but what the heck, here is a Valentine's story.

Valentine’s Day is a stupid holiday. It’s just there to try and trick you into buying stuff, or for making you feel guilty about not getting anything for your stupid probably maybe sort of girlfriend. Emotional blackmail disguised as loving sentiment.

Relationships have never been something that you payed a lot of attention to, since there was never any practical reason for you to do so. Now that you’ve somehow tumbled ass-backwards into one, you find that you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing. Stupid bullshit romance holidays and their stupid rules are completely alien to you. Well, ok, you know you’re supposed to buy the other person a present, and you also know that, usually, the boy is expected to get a gift for the girl, but you’re not really sure what the protocol is if you’re a girl dating a girl. 

Realistically, you think, Root is the one who always insists that you’re dating, that you’re girlfriends, so she should be the one who has to do this stupid romantic stuff.

But this argument is so pitiful even you don’t believe it. There is no version of reality where you’re not the one who’s supposed to get a present for her.

It’s true that Root hasn’t exactly _said_ that she expects anything from you for Valentine’s Day. She has started to leave various subtle clues for you over the last few weeks, though. Like when she comments about some stereotypically perfect Valentine’s surprise she read about on Tumblr, or wherever it is that she gets this stuff. She is surprisingly terrible at being subtle.

Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, so you only have what’s left of today and part of tomorrow to somehow come up with something brilliant and romantic, and you have no idea what to do for her, or get for her. What does she even like? 

…

….

Suddenly it dawns on you that you are a lousy girlfriend. How can you not know what she likes?? Think, Shaw, dammit.

OK. She likes computer stuff, you guess. But you don’t know anything about computers, and you don’t really have the money for that kind of thing anyway. What else? What does she like? She likes… you. That doesn’t work. You can’t give yourself as a present, you don’t think.

You try to think of something else.

 

 

Valentine’s Day is stupid.

This is the cycle your thoughts have been going in: you have to get something for Root —> you don’t know what to get Root —> Valentine’s Day is dumb and you don’t care about it —> Root cares about Valentine’s Day —> you have to get something for Root

And so on, for infinity. You know if you don’t manage anything appropriately girlfriend-y for the stupid holiday, you’re going to upset Root, and you hate upsetting her. Then you’ll have to figure out how to apologize to her, and probably end up getting her a present anyway. And the kissing will stop. 

You don’t want the kissing to stop. 

“Sameen.”

You’re sitting on a swing in the run-down park that Root likes for some reason. She’s in the swing beside you, and she keeps swinging sideways and bumping into you. You could ignore her, but she’ll just keep doing it until you acknowledge her. Root loves attention more than anything, and she loves attention from you more than anyone.

Wait.

That’s an idea, you think. Or at least the start of one.

“Samee _eeen_.” Root whines, bumping into you again. 

“What?”

Root grabs one of the chains holding your swing to the rusted metal frame of the swing set, and pulls herself over until her face is right next to yours. This is more distracting to you than you would like to admit. “Do you want to sleep over at my house tonight?” 

You’re sure your surprise is registered on your face. Root has never asked you over to her house before; she dodges even discussing her family or home life unless you really press her, and even then she only does so reluctantly and somewhat flippantly. Why is she asking now, all of a sudden?

Somewhere in the midst of your befuddlement you vocalize the first thing that comes to your mind: “I need to ask my mom.”

“I already did.” Root lets go of your swing, lets her momentum carry her away from you, then back again like a pendulum, then she grabs your swing once more and latches herself on tightly. “She said it’s ok.”

“Remember that conversation we had about personal space?”

“No,” Root replies, wide-eyed, pulling herself closer and laying her head on your shoulder. “Wanna remind me?”

“Forget it.” You sigh. “Ok, sure, I’ll sleep over tonight.” You can’t deny that you’re curious about Root’s home, and her sudden desire to bring you there. Pretty much all you know about her home life is that her mom is always busy, probably sort of well-off, and also that she’s an asshole who’s mean to Root and you hate her. And you have other, ulterior motives for visiting Root’s house as well, namely, getting yourself close enough to all of Root’s personal belongings that you can come up with an appropriate gift for a stupid holiday that you don’t even care about anyway. 

She wraps her arms around your neck to hug you, but in the process she loses her balance, toppling both of you out of your swings and onto the dirt below with a solid thud.

“Sameen,” Root says, voice slightly muffled from where she lies facedown on the ground, torso laying across yours. “I think you’re falling for me.”

***

You return to your house to pick up some pajamas for tonight and clothes for tomorrow, though you do text your mom first to confirm that the outing has actually been run by her. You wouldn’t put it past Root to ‘forget’ to do so, as some obliquely connected cog in the mechanism of her schemes. But you quickly receive confirmation that Root had requested permission for your presence, which your mom seemed to be quite happy about. Which is good. She hasn’t been happy very much since your dad died, and you haven’t been able to figure out how to cheer her up.

Apparently, all you had to do was make friends with a lunatic.

You and Root bike to her house, which is more rural than you expected, rather modestly sized, dwelling at the end of a long road, on the edge of a hill. You can see cows grazing in the field down below. The road curves around a copse of trees, so from the driveway, no other houses or people are visible. It’s quite nice, actually. You wouldn’t mind living in a place like this someday.

Better not say that to Root, though. She’d take it the wrong way.

“Come on!” She yells from up ahead, rolling her bike into a one-car garage which presently contains zero cars; presumably Root’s mother is still at work. Or wherever it is she goes that requires her to constantly neglect her daughter, you think savagely. You clench and unclench your hands on the handlebars of your bike, trying to calm yourself down. It’s stupid to get mad about this. It’s not like you can do anything about it. But thinking this just makes you mad again.

You lean your bike against the garage wall next to Root’s, and follow her through the door into the house. The interior looks almost like a model home; impeccably decorated, but sterile somehow; there are no dishes left out in the kitchen, no books or magazines lying around, you don’t even spy any of the typical family photos decorating the walls. It’s almost like no one actually lives here. Root leads you up a flight of stairs to her room, the only room on the second floor except for a small bathroom which is accessed from within Root’s room.

Her room looks a lot like you expected it to. Nearly half the floor is covered in articles of clothing that have been strewn about, little bits of metal and wire that look like projects Root started on but got bored with, and various notebooks and pieces of paper that all bear some variation of ROOT & SHAW, written in elegant cursive, encircled by large hearts. Root deftly navigates the minefield of indolence and hops onto her bed, gesturing for you to join her. You step somewhat less surely around the debris of Root’s existence, and climb up onto the bed beside her.

“Did your closet explode in here, or something?”

Root tries to give you a serious look, but she can’t stop smiling and just looks kind of silly. “No need to be rude, Sameen.” She scoots closer and puts an arm around your shoulders. “Besides, I’ve seen your room.”

“My room looks fine.” You don’t move her arm away. But just because you don’t feel like bothering. 

“Only because you just shove everything under your bed.”

“Why were you looking under my bed?” You ask, starting to get annoyed. “ _When_ were you looking under my bed?” Normal people would take your tone as a hint to back off, but it just makes Root more excited. Not that she’s ever been accused of being normal. Neither have you, for that matter.

Suddenly you’re not mad anymore.

“Don’t worry,” Root is saying placatingly. “I didn’t look through any of your stuff.” She reconsiders. “Well, I didn’t look through _most_ of your stuff.”

You sigh. “Can we eat something? I’m starving.”

***

A movie plays on Root’s laptop, which rests on top of several stacked books. You and Root watch, seated beside each other on the bed, each armed with a plate of meat loaf that Root’s mom had prepared earlier and left in the fridge. The food is delicious, and although you want to hate it on principle, you find yourself unable to do so.

“There’s a kitchen downstairs, you know,” You say between bites. “Not that this isn’t fun.”

“I like eating up here.” Root replies. Numerous dishes stacked on the bedside table attest to the truth of this statement. Also on the bedside table, you observe a framed picture of a very small Root with a man you presume to be her father. But you don’t say anything about it. You don’t know how to have that conversation.

***

Bedtime approaches, with Root’s mom still having yet to make an appearance. You ask, and Root responds with a shrug, and “She works late,” which you think is a shitty excuse. This lack of parental oversight does mean that there’s really no need for you to go to bed anytime soon, or even at all. However, you made a deal with yourself that lets you put off thinking about Valentine’s ideas for Root tonight, provided you come up with something good tomorrow. And the likelihood of you doing so if you’re too tired to think clearly is very low. Root seems keen on sleeping as well, presumably looking forward to your hopefully great and reasonably romantic surprise.

“So,” You begin after returning from the bathroom, now attired appropriately for sleep in your pajamas. “Is there any room in this biohazard zone to fit the sleeping bag?” Root had informed you that she had a sleeping bag you could use, so you didn’t need to bring the one from your house. She avoids making eye contact with you, shifting her weight from foot to foot and biting her bottom lip. You sigh. “There’s no sleeping bag, is there?”

Root face twitches as she tries to hold back a smile. “Guess we have to share the bed.”

You stare flatly at Root, while she grins hopefully.

“Ok, fine,” You tell her, and she jumps up and down ecstatically. “But you better stay on your side. Or I’ll push you off the bed.”

***

“Do you still think about your dad sometimes?”

Root voice breaks the silence in the room, shaking you out of your almost-but-not-quite slumber. You don’t open your eyes, but you can feel her shifting around beside you. She’s kept her promise to stay on her side of the bed so far, though these ‘feelings’ talks have a tendency to devolve into cuddling. 

“Sometimes.” You reply to her question. Maybe she saw you looking at the picture.

“I think about my dad,” Root says, thoughtfully. “Even though I’m sure he doesn’t think about me, I still wish he was here. Isn’t that weird?” 

Sometimes you wonder if the reason your relationship with Root works is because she’s just as socially obtuse as you are. You’re pretty sure she does it on purpose, though.

“He’s an asshole.” You tell her. You find her hand under the covers and grip it tightly.

Root’s quiet for a while. Until you (again) almost find sleep. Then she says: “Do you like dresses?”

“…What?” 

“On girls.”

“Yeah,” You say, rolling your eyes, even though she can’t see it. Your voice carries the sentiment well enough. “I figured that. I meant why are you asking?”

“I was thinking about wearing one to school tomorrow. I just wanted to know what you thought.” Root uses the tone that she deploys when she’s saying more than she’s letting on. Which is the tone she uses almost exclusively.

“Wear whatever you want.” You’re really not sure what she’s trying to get at here. 

“Do you think it would look good on me?”

This line of questioning is becoming just as stupid as it is incomprehensible. “You always look good, Root. Let me go to sleep.”

This was apparently the right response, since she squeezes your hand happily.

“I think you’d look,” Root yawns widely and loudly. “Really pretty in a dress. I mean, you look pretty anyway…” Her voice drifts off sleepily, but she doesn’t let go of your hand. You don’t let go either.

***

Shaw is sleeping. You scooted as close to her as possible without getting on her side of the bed. Which is pretty close. Your bed is small. She huffs out a breath. You reach out and poke her cheek. Her eyelid twitches and she mutters something, but she doesn’t wake up.

You slept with Shaw last night. Sure, the truth is a lot tamer than the phrase implies, but none of the friends you tell will need to know that.

You don’t have any friends other than Shaw, though, so it will just be you telling it to yourself. Which is fine, because it makes you happy every time you think about it. You entertain yourself like this for a while. 

Now you’re bored again. Poke Shaw. Poke. Poke. Still not awake. But the way she scrunches up her face every time you poke her is so cute you just can’t stop. Poke.

Today is Valentine’s Day. For the last few weeks, you’ve been offhandedly telling Shaw about a bunch of different Valentine’s Day ideas you found around the internet. You don’t think she really knows what to do, so you thought you’d give her a lot of suggestions so she doesn’t have to worry about it too much. You don’t even need a present, really. You already spend almost every day with her, and half of the week you sleep over, so what else could you need? You’ve thought about telling her that she doesn’t need to get you anything, but you know she’s sensitive about not being good at relationship-y stuff, and you don’t want to make her feel like you think she can’t do it. 

You poke her again. You want to give her the gift you bought a few days ago. Poke.

“Stop it,” She growls, without opening her eyes.

“Good morning, gorgeous.” You say, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes shudder open slowly and she tries not to smile. But she smiles anyway, because you are just that charming.

You lean forward and give her a good morning kiss. It’s kind of morning breath-y, but still very nice. Her lips are big and soft and perfect, and make for very pleasant kissing. Not that you’ve ever kissed anyone else to compare with. But why would you want to? If other people kissed Shaw, they would never want to kiss anyone else either. But they can’t, because she is yours.

You pull away, leaving Shaw still bleary and looking somewhat disappointed. You reach down beside your bed and pull out the large box of chocolates, and hold it out to her. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Shaw sits up and takes the proffered box. She looks down at it for a moment, then looks back up at you. “I got you something too.”

“Ok.” You try not to seem too excited, but you don’t think you do a very good job.

“It has to wait until after school, though.”

***

You and Shaw eat chocolates for a while, but soon you are forced to get ready for school. Shaw grabs her backpack with her clothes in it, and goes into the bathroom to change. She closes the door, probably so you can’t look.

Which you guess is fair, because you definitely would have tried to look. Not on purpose. You just can’t help yourself around Shaw.

So while she’s getting dressed, you look through your clothes (not the ones on the floor) for appropriate Valentine’s Day apparel. You have two dresses in your closet presently, blue and red. Black outfits and red outfits are the ones that Shaw compliments you the most on, you have discovered after several weeks of careful research, so you tend to wear those more often now. So red dress it is. Boots? Yes, definitely. Boots make your legs look good, which you have noticed Shaw noticing on multiple occasions. 

Shaw comes out of the bathroom and you go in, preparing to make yourself pretty.

Well, pretti _er_ , since Shaw said you always look pretty.

You think about this and space out in front of the mirror for a while until Shaw bangs on the door with a “Did you die in there?”

“Wow, you can’t even go a few minutes without me,” You say, trying to sound as relaxed as possible while you tug your pajamas off and your dress on. “Kinda clingy, Sameen.”

“Clingy?” Shaw retorts from the other side of the door. “You’re the one who never stops touching me.”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” You say, applying lipstick.

“I’m complaining _right now_.”

“Oh,” You say, opening the door and stepping back into your room. “So do you want me to stop?”

Shaw’s mouth is open, like she’s about reply, but she just stares at you. Her mouth stays open. “Wow.”

You grin. This is the reaction you were aiming for. “I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.”

***

“Let’s go, Samantha.”

Your mom barely even reacts to your guest, beyond a cursory nod in her direction, even though you hadn’t looked for parental consent before inviting Shaw over. 

Samantha Samantha Samantha. You hate being called Samantha. Hearing your mom say it makes you want to curl up into a ball and hide. Shaw notices, and you can see anger clouding her face. She’s not very good at emotions, but she knows how to be angry, so she gets angry on your behalf. It’s very sweet. She fiercely grabs your hand and holds it in a vicelike grip all the way to the car, and all the way to school, maintaining a constant, furious glare in your mother’s direction. The gesture goes unnoticed.

“ _Root_ ,” Shaw announces when you reach the school, emphasizing your name. “Is staying at my house tonight.” She opens the car door and drags you with her before your mom has a chance to respond. 

***

There are lots of couples around being couple-y today. None of them are as cute as you and Shaw, which is gratifying. Not unexpected. But gratifying.

She sits with you at lunch, like usual, but excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and never rematerializes for your next class. Or the one after that.

Hardly the first time she’s snuck out of school. But normally she asks you to come along.

***

Slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you leave your last class of the day, walk out to the parking lot, and then… what? Walk to Shaw’s? What if she’s not there? Should you just wait here?

You sit down on the curb.

You’re sure she’s up to something, so you’re not really put out, but being left alone by your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day is not very fun. You sigh.

Your phone buzzes. Your heart speeds up as you quickly unlock it to check your messages.

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 4:10**

**Come to the park**

***

It’s a pretty short walk. Only about ten minutes. But you’re so excited it seems like forever.

You navigate through the ubiquitous weeds that serve as a de-facto fence for the run-down park, and stop short when you see Shaw. 

She’s sitting on one of the swings, wearing a white dress that comes down nearly to her ankles.

You try not to stare.

You fail to not stare.

You didn’t even know she owned any dresses. Did you tell her that she’d look pretty in one? Maybe. You might have just dreamed that. Your dreams usually have Shaw in them. But anyway, you’re pretty sure this isn’t a dream, even if it shares several essential qualities with your typical sleep-induced adventures.

“You can stop staring.”

“You look amazing.” You say truthfully.

“I know.” She says, but she looks pleased. 

When you are able to sever your eyes from Shaw for a moment, you notice a blanket spread out on the grass behind the swing set, with a cooler sitting beside. You take Shaw’s hand, gently pull her off the swing and towards what you presume to be a picnic, planned by your lovely girlfriend.

“You made dinner for me?” You ask, sitting down on the blanket crosslegged, before realizing that this causes issues with your dress and adjusting your posture somewhat.

“Well,” Shaw looks uncomfortable, opening the lid on the cooler. “I don’t really know how to cook anything, so I just made sandwiches.”

You have the best girlfriend. Also the prettiest. She’s still standing by the cooler, looking uncertain.

“So,” She starts. “Is this romantic enough?”

“Sameen, this is perfect.”

“OK, good,” Shaw looks relieved, and sits down. 

“You didn’t have to do anything for me,” You say, pulling a sandwich from the cooler. “I know this isn’t really your thing.”

“Come on,” Shaw scoffs. “You’d’ve moped for weeks if I hadn’t done anything.”

You stick out your bottom lip and make your best mopey-face. Shaw’s lips quirk upwards, and she tells you, “Stop it,” but you don’t, you keep doing it and moving your face closer to hers until she starts laughing and pushes you away.

***

Root eats two sandwiches. You eat five. Then she lays her head in your lap, and seems content to remain there quietly.

Whatever rubric is used to determine whether a Valentine’s date is satisfactory appears to have been met, at least in Root’s eyes. Somewhat surprising, considering you threw it together at the last second with no firm ideas other than to give Root dinner somewhere that she actually feels safe and comfortable, i.e., not at her house. The dress probably helped too. Showing that you pay attention to what she says wins you a lot of Root points. Root points are a real measurement, collated in a file you’ve seen on her computer, awarded for things like ‘kissing,’ ‘minimal resistance to dates,’ ‘told me i was pretty,’ and so on. Although you’re mostly sure she only does it to mess with you.

This tangent reminds you of something else you’re supposed to do on dates.

“Hey,” You say, and she opens her eyes and looks up at you. “You look really pretty tonight.” 

She smiles widely, and wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you down for a kiss. “You do too.”

She’s told you this a number of times already tonight, which you also gathered from her even more frequent than usual stares.

Maybe you kind of like it. Besides, you _do_ look really good. You generally favor a more utilitarian wardrobe, since a dress can be rather cumbersome if you find yourself in a situation where you need to fight someone, but you can wear the hell out of one if you want to.

“Does your mom know we’re dating?” Root inquires suddenly.

“I didn’t tell her,” You say. “But I think she figured it out.” Fortunately you already had the uncomfortable ‘you can love anyone you want’ talk years ago, after your younger self had a brief infatuation with a television actress, so your mom has just been giving you quiet encouragement, and occasionally advice when you upset Root and have no idea how to fix it. She also seems disturbed by Root’s home situation, and invites her over as often as possible. Almost as often as Root invites herself over. “She really likes you.” You inform her.

Root looks up at you mischievously. “She’ll make a good mother-in-law.”

You push her off your lap, and she snorts in laughter.

***

“I left my bike in your garage.”

You lean against the headboard of your bed, while Root lays backwards off the edge, her feet by your legs, head hanging off the end of the bed. Her face pops back into your vision for moment as she leans up and asks “Are you saying you want to come over again?” 

“Yeah.” You say. “But if I see your mom again, I’m going to beat her up.” Root grins and flops back down with slightly too much force, her torso and then legs falling over the end of the bed. She hops back up and seats herself next to you.

“Do you think you’re a good kisser?” She asks, with no preamble.

“I dunno.” You say. Is this a critique of your skills? “I guess.”

“But how would you know?” Root inquires. “Like, if you were a bad kisser, how would you find out?”

You turn to look at her. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just saying,” Root continues. “We’ve never kissed anyone other than each other. Not a very large sample size. So how do we know if we’re any good?”

“So…” You say slowly. “You want to… kiss other people?”

“No, Sameen,” Root says, in the tone she uses when you’re not getting something she thinks is obvious. “I’m saying, maybe we should _practice_ more. You know, so we can get better.”

Oh.

“Yeah,” You say. “OK.”

So you kiss her for a while. There are worse ways to spend Valentine’s Day.

You don’t think there are any better ways, actually. But you’re not going to admit that.

***

Root, in her sleeping bag (which she set up as close to your bed as possible), snorts again. She sleeps with one arm flung over her head, her mouth wide open, and every few minutes she snorts and twitches. You should be going to sleep, but for some reason you’re just leaning over the edge of the bed, watching her.

She’s cute.

***

You wake up, like you usually do these days, to Root’s face mere inches from your own. You try not to smile at her weird, earnest expression, but you can’t help it, and she grins back.

***

Relationships are stupid.

Except for yours.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who says nice things about my stories. I am continually and infinitely grateful, if more than slightly baffled. You are all wonderful people.


	3. Chapter 3




	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to everyone who reads, comments, or leaves kudos.


	5. Chapter 5

Date Idea #29 did not go like you expected it to.

But really, who would have thought that the thing would be so flammable? Hardly your fault. Also not your fault that Shaw can’t run as fast as you. Not your fault she got detention, but you still waited around afterwards until she got out, because you’re a good girlfriend and you love her. And you both had fun anyway, so you don’t know what she’s upset about, but she refused to talk to you, and told you not to come over to her house.

You didn’t want to call your mom to come pick you up, so you’re just walking home. It’s not very far. 

Sure, you’re sort of sad that you won’t spend tonight with Shaw, but that’s OK. She’s kind of touchy about some stuff, so you’ll just wait until she cools off and apologizes for being rude, and then you’ll make up and make out and everything will be back to normal.

And in the meantime you can work on some other things.

You decide to write a program that will determine if a number is prime or not. As you walk you start planning the code in your head, that way you can just type it right in when you get home, and test it. Should be simple. Take a number

number = input()

 

and see if it divides evenly by anything other than itself.

And one, obviously.

How to check? Start with a specific case. 7. For 7, you divide by 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. All numbers divide evenly by themselves and one, obviously, so no need to check those. Now generalize. Some sort of iteration. So for a general nth term, you would need to divide by…

divisor in  range(2, number):

That looks good. Wait, what if you test 2? Your range will be (2, 2). That won’t work.

 

divisor in  range(1, number):

 

That’s better. Just have to account for each number having at least one even division. Still won’t work for 1, but 1 is special, so you’ll think up something else for it later. 

Sameen said that you were special.

Sure, it was after you _asked_ her if you were special, but it still counts. 

You’ve always thought you were special. Not in an arrogant way, well, OK, maybe _kinda_ in an arrogant way, but mostly you just knew you were different. That’s fine, though. Different is good. Different is your favorite thing. That’s why Shaw likes you, too. You’re different from everyone else. Special. And she likes your face. She told you so. You like her face too. Especially her lips. And her eyes. And her hair. And her eyebrows when she’s mad, or concentrating. And her smile. You guess you like everything about her face, and also everything about her everything.

You suddenly realize you stopped walking while you were daydreaming about Shaw, so you start again.

How can you tell if a number divides evenly? Well, obviously you just look at it, but how to make a program tell the difference? Maybe

 

for divisor in range(1, number):  
divNumber = number / divisor

 

try storing it as an integer? 

 

for  divisor in range(1, number):  
int(divNumber) = number / divisor

 

Will a floating-point number stored as an integer throw an exception? You can’t remember. What if…

 

if  divNumber == int(divNumber):

 

And then initialize a counter…

 

and

counter += 1

 

maybe…

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***

Shaw’s in class the next day, but you don’t talk to her, because she comes in right as class starts and doesn’t look at you before she sits down. But you do stare intensely at the back of her head for the entire period, and you’re pretty sure she knows, based on the way she sits completely still throughout the whole class. She doesn’t usually do that, which you know because you generally spend most of the class just watching her. You don’t really need to pay attention; you learned all this math stuff last summer.

When you sit down at your regular table for lunch, you watch Shaw as she goes through the line to see if she’s going sit with you. Try not to be obvious. Look down at your plate, just glance up out of the corner of your eye. Only the corner of your eye is in the wrong corner, so you have to twist your head around, which probably is very obvious.

Shaw sits down opposite you. Doesn’t look up. You lean forward.

“You look really pretty today.”

Still doesn’t look up. You think you can see a bit of a smile, though. “I’m not upset about yesterday,” You continue. Now she looks up. A frown.

“Why should you be? Pretty sure I was the one in detention.”

“Well, you did leave me to go home by myself. Kind of hurt my feelings.”

Her eyebrows pull down even further. “So what? Are you expecting me to apologize?”

“No,” You say, rolling your eyes. “I said I’m not upset. It’s fine.”

She looks at you for a moment, then, without saying anything, abruptly stands up and walks away, tray of food in hand. This also hurts your feelings, but she’ll be back soon. Where would she even go? She doesn’t have any friends other than you.

She sits down at another table, with the soccer kids. A few of them look up at her, one of them says something to her. She says something back. You’re probably staring, but you can’t help it. Shaw is supposed be _yours_. _Your_ friend. Who are these people? Why are they talking to her? Why is she talking to them? Why is she being mean to you?

Your food suddenly seems unappetizing. You tip the remainders of your meal into the garbage, and stalk out of the cafeteria. Don’t look back at Shaw. If she wants to ignore you, you’ll ignore her. She’ll get lonely without you. Just have to be patient.

***

Being patient is exhausting.

And miserable. 

And also very lonely.

OK, so maybe _Shaw_ was the one who was still upset about yesterday. And maybe you should have apologized for getting her into trouble. But she was rude to you! And hurt your feelings. And made you walk home by yourself. What if you had been attacked by muggers?

Not a particularly likely scenario, but still.

You sigh, and roll over onto your stomach and grab your phone, laying beside you on the bed. Shaw didn’t talk to you for the rest of the day, and you were too busy ignoring her to notice if she noticed you ignoring her. You had thought that your silent treatment gambit would feel satisfying, but mostly you just feel sad. You’ve heard people say that your happiness shouldn’t be dependent on your relationships, but those people probably didn’t have perfect girlfriends like Shaw, so their dumb advice doesn’t really apply to you. You scroll through pictures of Shaw on your phone. Most of your pictures are of her. 

You grab your laptop and pull up Shaw’s school records. You like looking through them sometimes. The school’s network security is pathetic; good thing you’re so nice and just want to look. Shaw gets in trouble a lot, but she still does really well in her classes, which is probably the only reason they didn’t kick her out years ago. She’s really smart. You feel a surge of pride for your beautiful sociopath.

Then you remember you’re supposed to be mad at her. It’s hard, though. 

You also notice a new mark on Shaw’s disciplinary file. For yesterday. You pull up the details.

Oh.

Shaw is, in the words of whoever wrote the report, ‘one incident away from being permanently removed from the institution.’

There’s a weird sort of hollowness in your stomach as you come to a realization.

You are a bad girlfriend.

You almost got her kicked out of school! And then expected _her_ to apologize. You want to crawl under your bed and stay there for a few years.

But you don’t. You’re not going to wallow in your self-pity. You are a woman of action.

***

Though you are not witness to the event yourself, various strings of gossip reach you, and it takes very little effort to assemble the disparate facts into a coherent narrative. Root, under some motivation unknown to the school at large (though not unknown to you), entered the computer lab during her lunch period and proceeded to overtask one of the computers until it caught fire. Fortunately for the school administration, someone arrived to dispel the conflagration before it did any serious damage to anything other than the one computer (which presumably was completely destroyed). She was then escorted promptly to the principal’s office, where she also took credit for the similar blaze that you had been reprimanded for just days earlier. You imagine it wouldn’t take a serious leap of logic to connect these two events to yet another incident of arsonry in the not-so-distant past, but as far as you can tell from the information that reaches you, this connection is not made. Root’s mother then arrives, and escorts her daughter off of the premises.

As you sit in your last class of the day, you wonder, not for the first time, how you managed to get wrapped up with someone crazy enough to repeatedly set fire to school property in an attempt to apologize to you. 

You also wonder when you become crazy enough to find it just a little bit romantic. Her dramatic gestures are undeniably impressive. Though you should probably rein her in before she ends up hurting herself. She still makes you furious, just like she used to, only now whenever you get angry at her you still have the urge to kiss her stupid face. 

After school, you make your way home, retrieve your bike from the garage, text your mom to tell her you’re staying at Root’s, and set off towards her house.

Her mother’s car is in the driveway, which makes things a bit more complicated. The woman has maintained a sort of cold indifference towards you on any occasion when you’re forced to be in her presence, while you have attempted to convey the sheer depth of your hatred for her using only the force of your glare. It is a stalemate of silent loathing, and you have no intention of forfeiting the contest by walking up and knocking on the door. You doubt she’d be inclined to let you in to see a presumably-grounded Root, anyway. 

So you explore alternate avenues of passage. Peeking around the edge of the garage, you observe Root’s abode. The front of the house has a small deck, with steps leading up to it from the driveway, and a railing running around the perimeter. There’s a roof overhanging the deck, with a pitch much lower than the roof on the rest of the house. The windows along the length of deck look into the kitchen and entryway, and several surreptitious glances reveal no sign of anyone lurking behind the glass panes. You toss your backpack up, and watch with your teeth clenched as it flies up, lands on the deck roof, starts to roll down, then… stops. Good. Now for the hard part.

You walk up the steps to the deck, and clamber onto the railing, your weight shifting from one foot to another as you try to stand up. At full height, your hands clear the roof, but your head is still beneath it. You grit your teeth, clamp your hands down, and push off the railing as hard as you can. Your head makes it over the ledge; you try to swing one leg up over onto the roof, but can’t quite make it, leaving you clinging onto the edge of the deck roof with both hands and your chin, legs dangling below. With a grunt, you tense the muscles in your arms and swing your legs again, and manage to hook one on the edge. Tugging the other leg up, rolling over to lay fully on the roof, arms sore and hands stinging, you take a moment to catch your breath before carefully standing up, locating your backpack, then scanning the roof for your next destination.

***

There’s a knock on your window. You pull the curtains aside to investigate, and find Shaw crouched on the roof outside. You can’t stop a grin from spreading across your face. And she thinks she’s not good at being romantic. You pull the window open.

“You know,” She says, clambering over the sill into your room. “A plain ol’ ‘I’m sorry’ works as an apology. Just in case you can’t find something to set on fire next time.”

“I’m sorry,” You say, wrapping your arms tightly around her back. “For getting you in trouble.”

Face pressed to your shoulder, she mumbles, “I’m sorry too. For hurting your feelings. And being an asshole.”

“The whole climbing in my window thing kinda makes up for it.” You assure her, pulling back slightly. “What happened to your hands?”

“Oh,” Shaw looks down and frowns at her hands, which are covered in dirt and blood. “I had some trouble getting up on the roof.”

You roll your eyes and pull her towards your bathroom. “Come on, I’ll clean you up.”

“Oh, so now _you’re_ the doctor?”

You wash Shaw’s hands, and rummage through your cabinet until you find some bandages, which you then carefully wrap around her injuries. You can see the appeal of this doctoring stuff. Very intimate. You wrap the last bandage slowly. Shaw has very pretty hands. Not soft. Kind of rough, which is what you would expect. But still very pretty. You look up, her face right above yours.

“I followed you home.” Shaw says abruptly.

“What?”

“When I told you not to come over. I followed you to make sure you got home safe.”

“Aww,” You say, pressing your forehead against hers. “You’re so sweet.”

“Can we kiss now?” She asks, sounding slightly strained. You quickly remove the distance between your lips and hers, and tug her back into your bedroom.

When you’re being kissed by Shaw, you pretty much lose track of everything else you’re doing. Sometimes you manage to put your arms around her, but sometimes you forget and they just kind hang limply at your sides. You wouldn’t be surprised if your knees gave out because you forgot to keep standing up.

Somewhere in the midst of the stupor Shaw’s lips have plunged your mind into, you think that it would be really romantic if your knees gave out and Shaw kept holding you up, so you decide to try it.

She gives a grunt of surprise as you topple to the floor, dragging her with you. So you did get your arms around her after all.

The result is more painful than you had anticipated, but it also caused Shaw to be pressed _very_ closely against you while you both lie on the floor, so you decide to consider this attempt at romance a success.

Shaw looks at you, her hair hanging forward to frame her face. “I swear,” She says warningly. “If you say anything about sweeping me off my feet…”

Well, you weren’t going to, but now, how can you not? You open your mouth, but Shaw puts hers there before you can get any words out.

OK. This is fine, too.

***

Things go back to normal. Shaw sits with you during lunch. Comes over to your house. Listens to you talk about programming and generalizing algorithms even when she has no idea what you’re saying. Tells you how to treat a gunshot wound, or how to recognize arrhythmia. Watches movies with your arm around her shoulder; laughs when you whisper in her ear.

Everything is perfect.

For a little while.

The event itself is innocuous enough. One of the boys from the soccer group walks by your table, and says ‘Hey,’ to Shaw. She says ‘Hey,’ back, and he walks away. She watches him walk back to his table, then returns her attention to her plate. 

You try to be subtle as you glance over at him. You don’t really know what people look for in boys, but you guess he’s pretty good looking. Kind of muscle-y arms. Was that why Shaw was looking at him? Is that what she likes? Still being subtle, you flick your eyes sideways to look at your own arms.

Skinny. Suddenly highly conscious of this fact, you try to tug down your shirt sleeves so it’s not so obvious. You know Shaw has said you’re pretty before, but she hasn’t said it in exactly six days, so maybe she’s changed her mind? What if she thinks that you’re pretty, but you _could_ be prettier? Would she think you were prettier if you worked out? You don’t even know how to work out. Pulling your sleeves down doesn’t work, so you just sort of cross your arms and hunch over your plate. Shaw looks at you funny, but she doesn’t say anything.

***

You collapse onto the floor of your room after failing to complete your third pushup. That’s probably enough, though. You read somewhere that you can tell your exercise is working when you start sweating, and you’re practically dripping, so you’ve probably made a lot of progress. You pull yourself up and walk into your bathroom to check your arms in the mirror.

Still skinny. Damn. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

OK, so what else can you do? Maybe Shaw doesn’t like the way you dress? Maybe a different style would make you more attractive to her. But what?

Maybe you don’t look gay enough? You’ve seen some gay girls with short hair or ball caps, maybe you should do that? Shaw has long hair, though. She does wear a ball cap sometimes. She dresses kind of tomboy-ish most times, maybe that’s what you should do? Are you too girly? Wait, what if you’re not being girly _enough_? You wore pants today, maybe you should have worn a skirt?

You wish Shaw was a computer so you could write a DoesShawThinkImPretty function and see whether it returns true or false.

You leave the bathroom, a discontent with the person in the reflection swelling inside you. You wish you looked like Shaw. She’s beautiful, her body looks like it was painted with one smooth brush stroke. You’re just sort of… cobbled together. Legs too long, arms too skinny. No muscle. Not even any curves, either. You flop down on your bed. You want to Snapchat Shaw, but the idea of sending her pictures of yourself is particularly unpalatable to you at the moment.

***

You have no idea what the hell is up with Root.

Not that you ever really do, but her behavior over the last few days has been bizarre even by her standards. Her entire sartorial repertoire seems to have been set to shuffle; one day she’s wearing a dress (short enough that you struggle to not stare openly at her legs), the next a hoodie and ball cap, the next a t-shirt and a pair of running shorts (similar difficulties re: staring). Her hair changes just as often. Like you’re on the character customization screen of a video game, rapidly scrolling through the myriad options. She is completely incomprehensible. She acts like she’s expecting some sort of response, but you have no idea what the fuck it could be, so you just try to act like normal.

Only this doesn’t really work; she becomes increasingly sulky and despondent, and even tells you she doesn’t feel like coming over to your house today. You pace around your room angrily. Angry at Root for being so impossible. Angry at yourself for not knowing how to make her happy. Angry at her for not _being_ happy. Angry at yourself for being angry at her. Root inspires a powerful, uncontrollable protective instinct somewhere inside you that lashes out at anything that threatens her, even when that thing is you.

“Is Root not coming over tonight, Sameen?” Your mom asks you over dinner.

“No.” You viciously stab a piece of broccoli with your fork.

“Is it anything you want to talk about?”

“No.” You spear vegetables in grim silence for a few minutes, then burst out, “I just don’t understand why she has to be so _frustrating_!”

She listens while you regale her with rants about Root’s antics. When you pause for breath, she says, “It sounds like she’s feeling a bit insecure.”

“Insecure?” You say incredulously. “About what?”

“Her appearance. I think she might be worried that you don’t find her attractive.”

This is so monumentally stupid that for a moment you’re speechless. After the moment passes, you manage the scintillating remark, “That’s stupid!”

“I know it seems that way to you,” She smiles at you. “But you have to remember that Root sees things a lot differently than you do. What’s obvious to you may not be obvious to her.”

The idea of Root being insecure is so unusual that your mind keeps trying to reject it, but as you think about it, some of Root’s actions start to make a little more sense. Is this why she always tries to get you to compliment her? Does she honestly wonder whether or not you’re attracted to her? You like when she calls you pretty, obviously, but it’s not because you need someone else’s confirmation. You just like hearing it. You know you look good.

What’s wrong with Root? She’s not blind, can’t she just look in a mirror and figure out she’s good looking?? Can’t she tell you have no interest (romantic or otherwise) in anyone else? Why is it your responsibility to explain obvious stuff to her?

Then again, you realize, you don’t think you’ve given her any sort of compliment in several weeks. And she always makes a point to comment on your appearance. Damn it. You are such a shitty girlfriend. Why are you so clueless? Why is dating so hard? Why can’t you just kiss her all day and skip all this other dumb stuff?

You should probably say something to her.

***

Root, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, is walking towards your first class when you grab her arm and tug her down the hallway.

“Are we skipping today?” She asks, stumbling along beside you.

You navigate through hallways and stairwells and around teachers and students until you reach the roof access, which you and Root and explored several months back, and which still remains accessible to you. 

A large metal air duct beside you blocks you from the lines of sight of anyone on the ground. Standing opposite Root, you put your hands firmly on her shoulders and look directly into her eyes. “You’re beautiful. You’re the hottest girl in this school, and if you ever wonder if I still think that, the answer is yes.”

Root’s hug nearly crushes your ribcage.

***

“My mom,” You say, leaning against Shaw’s chest, her arms around your shoulders. “Told me it didn’t matter what I looked like.” You shrug. “I think she was really trying to help. But it does matter.”

“You look good.” Shaw says. Your girlfriend. Yours yours yours. “You always look good. So any time you need to hear it, just tell me.”

“Doesn’t really count as a compliment if it’s not sincere.”

“It _is_ sincere,” Shaw says, frustrated. “I’m just not good at this. I don’t know when I’m supposed to tell you.”

“OK,” you say. “I’m ready to hear it now.”

“You’re beautiful.”

You smile. A moment passes.

“OK, I’m ready again.”

“Damn it, this isn’t going to work.”

***

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Root’s lying beside you in the grass. You went home with her, and after dinner, walked down the other side of the hill her house is on. There’s a field, running up to just before the base of the hill, delineated by a white fence. You suppose whoever owns it keeps animals there sometimes. You can’t see any right now, though.

Root considers, then says, “Your wife.”

You scoff, and roll your eyes. “Yeah, so you keep telling me. Aren’t you going to have a job? Or are you just gonna stay home and do my laundry? Come on,” You poke her. “What do you want to be?”

“Remembered.”

You don’t expect to get anything more than that, so you don’t push it. “So about this dance we’re supposed to go to…”

Root rolls over onto her side. “Yeah?”

“Do you know how to dance?”

Root shrugs. “Sort of. I found some videos on YouTube. I’ve been practicing.”

“I can show you,” You say, in your most unaffected offhand voice. “If you want.”

“Sameen,” Root says, batting her eyelashes at you. “Do you want to dance with me?”

“Shut up.” You grumble, pulling yourself to your feet. You offer a hand to Root, who takes it, and you pull her up. “Put your arm around my waist.”

She does, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You put your arms around her, and begin moving in a simple pattern. 

“Watch what I’m doing.” You tell her. “Look at my feet.”

“I’d rather look at your face.”

You roll your eyes. “You can hit on me once you learn how to move your feet. Eyes down.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“At my _feet_ , Root.”

***

You watch Shaw sleep, in a way that is maybe kind of creepy but mostly not. People have always been sort of alien to you. Not worth bothering with. Shaw is the only one that’s different. Shaw is your 1. Your special case. The one your code treats differently. And you’re hers, too.

***

****

  
**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:20**  
  


****

**So for this dance**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:20**

**is one of us supposed to wear a suit**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:20**

**encourage stereotypical gender roles and all that shit**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:25**

**I don’t think it really matters**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:26**

**You can wear whatever you want! :)**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:37**

**Do you want to wear a suit?**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:38**

**yes**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:39**

**I know you’ll look lovely <3 <3**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:41**

**I was thinking I might wear one too**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:44**

**Haha**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:44**

**We’ll be the stereotypical lesbian couple**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:46**

**You’ll look really good in a suit**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:48**

**< 3**

 

**SENT FROM Root AT 10:48**

**See you tomorrow, sweetie**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:50**

**< 3**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:51**

**I’m never going to type that dumb emoticon again**

 

**SENT FROM Shaw AT 10:52**

**So you better enjoy that one**

 

** SENT FROM Root AT 10:53**

**< 3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3**


	6. Chapter 6

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw has advanced to the level where she can say ‘you’re hot,’ but hasn’t quite managed ‘being around you makes me happy.’ Give her some time, she’ll get there.
> 
> Though we likely won’t be seeing it in this story. I may decide to revisit this scenario in the future, but for now I think I am going to consider it finished. Thank you again to every who has read, commented, or left kudos. I had a lot of fun writing this!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey looks like i lied here's another chapter for this story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t want to copy real usernames, but coming up with a bunch of fake names seemed really labor intensive, so all the non Root/Shaw users here are named after characters from the Malazan series. 
> 
> One day I’ll finish my Root/Shaw Malazan story. It’s doubtful that the idea is as exciting to anyone else as it is to me, but hey, that’s what I’m here for! 
> 
> See you guys next time!


End file.
